Chief connoisseur of garbage a taste tester wins the prize as project Hail Matthew

Once upon a time my birth father,
and crusty crabby grand father
pulled a nasty trick on me,
that innocent fifth grader,
who played along with Halloween gag

when a lad who attended
Henry Kline Boyer Elementary School
(long since repurposed into
a Play and Learn Center
for nursery and kindergarten age kids),

where back in time
when I attended there taught an ancient
bewitched fossilized old hag
haggard flying her then
state of the art broomstick
inevitably bristling with jetlag
evincing behavior as if soused
by drinking vintage liquor from a keg.

I now quote verbatim listing the top-notch sweeping broomsticks yielded (in chronicle order newest to oldest) after googling state of the art 2026 brooksticks invented courtesy J.D. Rowling that hark the herald angels sang, and on a wing and a prayer employed to immense popularity earlier in the twenty first century.

For professional Quidditch players and enthusiasts of Harry Potter lore, the top tier of high-performance racing brooms includes:

Firebolt Supreme: The premier choice for international tournament play, famously utilized by the Bulgarian National Quidditch Team and stars like Viktor Krum. It features goblin-made ironwork and an unbreakable braking charm.

Thunderbolt VII: Built in 2014 as a direct, aggressive competitor to the Firebolt. Engineered for immense acceleration and high-pressure play, got called into use sought heavily by the Nigerian National Team.

 

Varápidos: A highly coveted, elite international racing broom manufactured and favored predominantly by the Brazilian National Team.

 

Yajirushi: A top-tier, precision-crafted racing broom preferred by the Japanese National Quidditch Team.

 

Nimbus 2001: While slightly older, the Nimbus Racing Broom Company's flagship model remains a global benchmark for sleek aerodynamics, exceptional handling, and team coordination.

 

Four decades and seven years ago

when a bambino

among those disposed

like so much flotsam and jetsam,

countless observers wondered

where did the van

with a magic busload

carrying trick and treating kids

innocent children donning

waxed lips, mustaches,

fake buck teeth, and horse teeth

molded from the same

paraWax mustaches,

molded from the same paraffin wax

camouflaged, disguised masked

and souped up government getup

self propelled driving vehicle made a heave ho,

scaling the heights of tall buildings,

and in a poof vanished into a time warp
shortly thereafter to be
sucjed into the closest known
black hole to Earth
identified as Gaia BH1,
located approximately 1,560
light-years away
in the constellation Ophiuchus.

nary a trace out of thin air excitement

vocalized at the top of their little lungs

never heard from any mo,'

where frightened screaming kids

heard wailing echoes across the universe.

Though runt of the litter,
nevertheless, I got bestowed with brilliant powers
to thwart what appeared as doomed fate
and grabbed hold of the steering wheel
zipping fast as greased lightning
property of Perkiomen Valley district
back before the party started.

As a Halloween costume,

aforementioned year during early grade school,

my father got the brilliant idea

with one of a kind getup

for his sole son to be dressed as white trash

don't discount the above as so much rubbish

or thee doubting thomas might find yourself

richly endowed turned into newt trill nouveau

creepy people forever

to haunt like a dark shadow

inching (like the incy wincy spider)

along the edge of night

within the outer limits of the twilight zone.

 

Missus Shaner

(the talon clawed, shriveled

relic of a dinosaur,

who taught fifth grade,

whose lovely bones stored

in the Smithsonian Museum)

gave me first prize,

and subsequently felt so convinced

about authenticity of this kid

being “privileged white trash,"

she notified another kid

dressed as a janitor

to dispense with me

in the school dumpster.

The sanitation disposal company

drove me (and subsequently

dumped yours truly

among the real rubbish

to nearest landfill

loaded with all kinds of junk

such as food scraps, recyclables,

and soiled diapers.

 

Over a short span of time,

the detritus commingled

into one noxious brew

of a despicable fly haven,

whereby jiggling lifelike maggots,

jump/kick started, lunched, and nursed putrescence

re: reeking and teeming vibrantly

with yum zuck for a swamp thing,

I seemed to be metamorphosed

into sewer rat as if by some cruel hoax.

 

Nothing compared, neither sickened

nor violated senses

of smell, sight, taste, and touch

to the maximum factor

intolerant of odoriferous odious stench.

Each pestilential assault

issued an appalling refrain

courtesy Fiona Apple's:

The Idler Wheel Is Wiser

than the Driver of the Screw

and Whipping Cords Will Serve You

More than Ropes Will Ever Do.

 

Before mine myopic bespectacled eyes

(smarting from constant comet drubbing irritants

(which glasses – rather bifocals –

caked with smudge good as naught),

stayed wide shut from inundation

of said corrosive gaseous shaped

oxbow lake comprising wreath

like willow o the wisps.

 

Liberty vis a vis in sight

envisioned visibly threatened offshoots

of tendril spikes; snaking sneakily,

sordidly slithering silently,

yet straightaway as a scene

from some spooky sideshow

or “haunted house."

 

This ugly slop

splashed upon mine formerly

pristine academic uniform

appeared near identical

to the grub hub (the lunch lady served)

splattered sundry speckles

sans sundry detritus,

which found me writhing with nausea.

Thee nasty muck and mire

found this formerly introverted boy

transformed into a sponge bobbing

squarely panting creature

from the black lagoon,

whose skinny sea legs

sought semi-solid surface

to stand upright position amidst

variegated flotsam and jetsam.

 

Dishabille appearance acquired

a fresh splattered coat of rancid slimy

green eggs and ham with bacon

covered gangly arms

(among other bits and pieces of moldy clothes,

food and iconic library oddments)
found me booking upon handle
of fast approaching humongous
military size rig, whrereat unthinking move
found slippery fingers of mine
left hand latched upon makeshift handhold
while with right hand locked onto steering wheel

despite how pseudo Sherman tank
ricocheted unpredictably as an outsize trash truck

violently shook up and down

all night long en route

on this highway to hell

found me thunderstruck

(before being buried alive in Moyer’s Dump),

which toxic brew would be declared

a Super Fund Site

and shuttered in the near future.

 

Once Robert Hall wardrobe

affixed with a capitalone fancyfeast

of grateful dead road kill,

kickstarter from some automotive contraption,

and plenti of fish heads

(with thine square pants

trimmed with lovely bones),

I felt indistinguishable

from regular riffraff riding shotgun.

 

When random trucker parked and stopped,

the awful bin laden made ready

to empty contents within the mountain

of olfactory noxious material.

 

A thought occurred,

that now might be the golden

(or rather gook steeped) opportunity

to extricate myself and classmates

from morass of mish mashed,

spud nicked linkedin kindled juggernaut,

icky first class bric a brac.